


Last Man Out

by Rocky_T



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:02:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocky_T/pseuds/Rocky_T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of baseball's final season in 2042. (History is a bit different than our current reality.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Man Out

**Author's Note:**

> Buck Bokai, who played for the London Kings, was first mentioned in TNG and introduced in DS9. 
> 
> Many thanks to Seema for her beta.

"Goddamned son of a--!" 

The rest of Harmon "Buck" Bokai's words were drowned out by the sound of his fist slamming down on the desk in front of him.

"Stop that!" Jon Tate got to his feet with an alacrity that belied his 78 years. "Buck, you're going to bust your hand again if you keep that up. And what good will that do? You won't be able to swing a bat or field any grounders with a broken hand."

"From what you're telling me, nobody's going to be playing baseball much longer anyway," Buck said bitterly. He inspected the knuckles on his right hand for damage, flexed them cautiously and winced. "The sport is dead. Kaput. By decree of our beloved Commissioner."

"Don't go blaming Martinez," Tate said with a shake of his head. "I know the two of you haven't always seen eye to eye, but it's not his fault--it's not anyone's fault. Baseball has been dying for a long time, victim of a society that simply doesn't have time for any such diversions. That's what they'll put on its tombstone--'just didn't have time for this.'" He sighed. "It's been going on for years already. Look at the attendance, for one thing--"

"It's hard to come to games in person," Buck said. "What with the price of tickets." Too restless to sit still, he began to pace the small confines of the office. Outdoors, the sun was shining brightly. But Buck felt as if a bank of clouds had appeared on the horizon. 

"No one is watching anymore either." Tate tapped the printout next to his desk monitor. "Used to be a major sporting event would draw at least a few million viewers. Not that ratings mean what they used to, back in the old days of television, when you had a handful of networks instead of thousands of StreamNets. But the fact is, the numbers just aren't there anymore. Eight billion people on the planet--but only a few thousands tune in at a time. The average ChatStream logs more traffic than that on a hourly basis." He sighed again. "Or maybe it's not that people don't have time--maybe they simply don't care about baseball anymore."

Buck swung around to face Tate. "What about you? Don't tell me you agree with them!"

"Relax, Buck--you're preaching to the choir here. I'd never turn my back on the game. Besides, soccer's too rowdy for me, and I never have been able to understand this new-fangled Parises Squares." Tate was silent for a long moment. "More than the first baseball game I ever saw, what stands out most for me is the first game I took my son Billy to." 

Buck was quiet, though he'd heard the old man tell this story before. William Tate had been one of the victims of the Bell Riots twenty years ago; his father had left San Francisco immediately afterward, never to return. 

"Nineteen ninety seven," Tate continued, his voice warming with the memory. "It was the Indians versus the Marlins. The Tribe was up, ninth inning, two outs. Just one more batter and it would be over, they'd win the Series. They put their ace closer in--talk about a sure thing...Of course, it didn't work out that way. The Marlins came back to tie, and then won it in extra innings. Funny how things don't always turn out the way you expect." Tate's eyes misted slightly. "For me, you'll never match that excitement. Anything other than baseball lacks that certain something, that palpable feeling. But no one else feels that way anymore, except a handful of folks like you and me, and that's simply not enough."

"Sure it is. Baseball has survived more than a century, world wars and--"

"You're not telling me anything I don't know. Though it looks like I need to tell you a few things." Tate pointed to an old-fashioned, but still serviceable, headset on the desk. "I've been doing baseball play-by-play for over forty years. And I have to tell you, it's not the same sport it was when you came up with the Kings, back in '15. Heck, it isn't even the same as it was the year you broke DiMaggio's record for hits in consecutive games. Do you know how many folks followed Pete Rose's earlier pursuit of that record? It was front-page news. Fifty and sixty years ago, baseball mattered. But now interest has dwindled to the point where it's just a curiosity."

"There's still an interest in the game," Buck said, his eyes meeting the other's intently. "It still matters. Last year's Series, not to mention the lead-up to the post-season, was the most thrilling in years!"

"Not surprising when you consider how few teams there are--everybody's still in the chase until the last few games," Tate said dryly.

Buck's mouth tightened. "The Commissioner's announcement will be a self-fulfilling prophecy--killing baseball prematurely."

"More like a mercy killing, if you ask me, instead of letting it malinger." Tate raised a hand to forestall protests. "Back in your rookie year, how many teams were there?"

"Thirty-four."

"And now?"

"Twelve," Buck muttered. "But the sport's gone through expansion and contraction before--teams like the old Expos were replaced with the Nationals, to give just one example."

"And the London Kings were formed in '10," Tate agreed, "but they were the last new team to take hold. None of the other European ones did, nor any of the Asian. And then the old stalwarts, like the Red Sox, the Dodgers, started to fold. Even the Cubs--it was like after they finally won the Series in '08, they lost heart, lost their raison d'etre."

"I haven't lost my heart," Buck said stubbornly.

Tate smiled sadly. "I know you haven't. Which is why you're still playing, 27 years later. Fellow your age shouldn't still be at the 'hot corner.' You're playing not out of ego, or lack of sense of knowing when to quit, but because you're needed--that if you weren't out there you wouldn't be able to field a complete infield."

As if brought on by the power of suggestion, Buck's knee started throbbing again. He rubbed it absently, thinking about Tate's words, not wanting to admit they were true. Buck's one concession to his aging body had been switching from shortstop to third base--still a demanding role. Outfield would have been better, but there was a relatively large pool of players to fill those two spots--in comparison to the other positions. It had been ten years since the league had changed the rules to specify only eight men on the field; the next logical step--inevitable, really--was to reduce the number of infielders as well.

Tate must have been thinking the same thing. "From what I hear, there won't be any rookies this year. Which makes it, what, four out of the last six years that's been the case?"

Buck was silent. He turned his gaze away from the windows, from the beautiful spring day--perfect diamond weather--to the monitor where one of the all-news NetStreams was playing out soundlessly. The scene was of explosions, followed by shots of a bombed-out city. It could have been one of hundreds of locations all over the globe. Regional conflicts had been steadily escalating, with calls for retributions and counterstrikes. The Eastern Coalition was becoming increasingly adversarial, and war rumblings were ever-present. The most optimistic outlook was that it would be another five years before the inevitable major conflict--on a planetary scale--erupted. Closer to home, things weren't much better. The Bell Riots had been the beginning of the end, not that many had recognized it as such at the time. Even in affluent countries, people were starving. The climate had become harsher, energy more and more expensive to produce, and more and more people were doing without what were once considered basic necessities. All the more reason, in Buck's opinion, something like baseball was essential. Not just a form of escapism, but a lesson in cooperation, of perseverance and accomplishment.

He didn't know how to express those feelings out loud. And if he couldn't even convince Tate, who he knew agreed with him on the most basic level, what chance did he have of persuading an indifferent public?

"So that's it?" Buck said despairingly. "This is the last season?" 

Tate put his hand comfortingly on Buck's shoulder. "Commissioner Martinez won't put it so bluntly. But I have it on good authority that another three teams are going to be gone when this year is over. And you know as well as I do that doesn't leave us with enough for decent competition."

"Can't anything be done?" 

"It'd take a miracle, son--a bigger one than the Sox coming back to win the Series." 

"Then we'd better make damn sure we pull one off," Buck said. "Thanks for the heads up." He strode out of Tate's office without waiting for a reply.

~*~

Eddie Newson was already sitting at the bar when Buck arrived, the Yankees logo on his dark blue jacket standing out prominently in the dimness. 

"Don't you believe in an honest day's work?" Buck said as he slid onto the unoccupied stool next to him.

"Spring training doesn't start till tomorrow," Eddie said with a shrug.

Buck caught the bartender's eye and placed his order. "What about the pitchers and catchers?" he said, turning back to Eddie. "Didn't they report early?"

"They know what it's all about without my hovering," Eddie said with a grin, which then wavered just a bit. "Not like any of them are youngsters, after all."

"But none of them have been around as long as you," Buck said. He picked up his mug of beer. "Cheers."

"At least I know better than to keep playing like some folks I could mention," Eddie said. "If you had any sense, you'd have hung up your bat and glove a long time ago and just stuck to managing."

"You never miss playing?" 

Eddie took a long pull on his beer. "Sometimes. Yeah, if I could still play, I probably would, and Lord knows I could use another reliable bat in my lineup." He abruptly changed the subject. "I tried calling you this afternoon. You weren't at the Kings' training complex, and no one knew where you could be found." 

"I had some things to take care of, people to see," Buck said vaguely. "What'd you want? Obviously it wasn't to cancel for this evening."

"I wouldn't dream of canceling. I just wanted to be sure you hadn't forgotten. We always have a drink the night before the season starts. It's been what, twenty years now?"

"Something like that," Buck said. It had begun back when they were just ordinary players. Buck had been an up-and-coming infielder with the Kings, Eddie his opposite number on the Yankees. The two of them had dogged each other in the stats every year--home runs, RBIs, assists, even walks. The rivalry continued when they both took on managerial roles; in some ways it had even intensified. 

Eddie looked around the room. Buck followed his glance, noting the faded pennants and banners on the wall above the bar. "Lot of history in this room," Eddie said.

"There certainly is," Buck said.

The bartender chose that moment to turn up the volume of the monitor perched on the wall, tuned to one of the myriad NetStreams. Buck felt a sinking sensation in his stomach when he recognized the features of Commissioner Martinez.

The announcement was terse, and to the point. "Due to unfortunate circumstances, I have no choice but to state that unless there is a drastic improvement in interest and participation, this season may very well be the last of professional Major League Baseball..."

Buck closed his eyes and willed himself not to listen.

"Well, I'll be damned," Eddie said, as a babble of excited voices rose around them. "It's over. Just like that." 

"They're giving us one more season," Buck said, staring down at his empty glass.

"One year, two, does it really matter?" Eddie said angrily. He stopped abruptly. "You knew, didn't you?"

Buck nodded slowly. "I had a meeting with Tate this afternoon."

"Talk about somebody for whom baseball's been his whole life," Eddie said. "How's the Old Man taking it?"

"He's pretty stoic, no, resigned is more like it." Buck sighed. "Tate's feeling is, maybe it's better this way." 

To Buck's dismay, Eddie agreed. "Maybe it is." He ran his hand over his face wearily. "Baseball has survived a hell of a lot since its earliest days--all those scandals, gambling, steroids, genetic manipulations. To think that in the end, it's going to die of apathy."

Buck loosened his collar and took a deep breath.

"I like the way Martinez phrased it, 'interest and participation.' Is he talking about the fans, or the players?" Eddie shook his head. "If you ask me, the lack of players is a bigger problem. I wasn't kidding about needing more power in my lineup. The average age of my guys is 36, which used to be when players started slowing down and wondering if they still have another season or two left in them." 

"So you're just giving up?" 

"When have you ever known me to give up?" Eddie asked. "And before you answer that, let me remind you I've been kicking your ass repeatedly over the years and this year's going to be no exception."

All at once, Buck felt a slight easing of the tension he'd been carrying around with him all day. "And I'll remind you," he said, "that you haven't won every one of our encounters. Remember the time I lined one off your leg?"

Eddie groaned. "Believe me," he said ruefully, "I've never forgotten it. You broke DiMaggio's record, and damn near broke my kneecap. Even if it was a fluke, just a lucky shot."

"It was a clean shot, right up the middle!" Buck protested. "Even if you had been in position, you would never have caught that baby with a butterfly net."

"That's what you think," Eddie said, his eyes glinting. 

They continued in that vein for a few more minutes, when Eddie suddenly sobered. "You can be sure I'm going to do everything in my power to make this one hell of a meaningful season--all the way to the Series."

"I never expected anything less from you," Buck said and clapped his old friend and rival on the shoulder. "May the best man--and team--win." 

"And we all know who that will be," Eddie said confidently. 

~*~

The season seemed to fly by, or maybe Buck was just more conscious of the passing of time, knowing every inning, every game, was one that could never be recaptured. As early as June it was becoming clear who the dominant teams would be, who would end up playing long after everyone else was knocked out. The Commissioner's announcement, for all that it hadn't been meant as a death knell, did seem to have had the effect of disheartening some of the teams. Others, like the Kings and Yankees, took it as a challenge.

*

Dateline: May 16, 2042  
Cardinals 6, Kings 5  
At London's Royal Pitch, Kings left fielder Yoshimato Burke missed Matt Hansen's line drive in the eighth inning, allowing two runs to score as St. Louis rallied from an early 5 run deficit to win the first game of a doubleheader.

*

Dateline: June 21, 2042  
Mariners 1, Yankees 0  
Daoud Smythe pitched eight shutout innings to lead the Mariners over the Yankees 1-0 in Seattle on Wednesday. Pitching for the first time in more than a month, Yankees ace Braxton Bashir slumped off the mound in the third inning with pain in his left elbow and manager Eddie Newson said Bashir was done for the year. Michael Garza (1-5) pitched well in emergency relief but he was outdueled by Smythe (4-1) who struck out 7 and allowed three hits. Hugo McCoy picked up his 8th save to help the Mariners break a four game losing streak. 

*

Dateline: July 31, 2042  
Kings 9, Rockies 3  
London's Freddy Guntz pitched perfect ball until Paul Chekov singled with two outs in the eighth inning. Guntz (14-4) retired the first 23 batters before Chekov cleanly lined the 100th pitch to center field on a 3-2 count. Yoshimato Burke of the Kings kept his scoring streak alive when he walked in the fourth inning, followed by Reuben Scott's first home run of the season and only the seventh of his career.

*

Dateline: August 14, 2042  
Yankees 11, White Sox 3  
Eric Kirk hit for the cycle as New York routed host Chicago. The Yankees roughed up Justin Riker (16-8) and sent the AL leading White Sox to their 10th loss in 15 games. Chicago leads New York by just half a game, with Cleveland two games back. 

* 

Dateline: September 18, 2042  
Kings 14, Houston 13  
The London Kings clinched their fifteenth pennant today with a victory over rival Houston. Player-Manager Buck Bokai walked with the bases loaded in the bottom of the eighth to force in the winning run. Earlier, Bokai came perilously close to being thrown out of the game by umpire Rene Picard over a disputed call at the plate in the third inning. Freddy Guntz started the game but departed after giving up five runs in three and a third innings. Reliever Marcus DeVries picked up the win after pitching two scoreless innings.

*

Dateline: September 30, 2042  
Yankees 3, Indians 2  
Cleveland starter Wayne Rozhenko (15-9) pitched a complete game, yet gave up a two run homer in the bottom of the ninth, ceding New York the American League title on the final day of the season. DeShaun Thompson walked with two outs. Domingo Santana, pinch-hitting for Eric Kirk, hit the first pitch over the right field fence. New York will face London in the World Series, beginning October 3.

~*~

"You're obsessed."

"Excuse me, dear?" Buck didn't look up from his lineup cards.

"I said," repeated Kristie Bokai, standing in the doorway of their crowded study with her arms folded across her chest, "that you're obsessed."

"I've got a job to do and I'm doing it, if that's what you mean."

"It's more than that. Do you realize that we've been married for 25 years and not once have you ever been available to take a vacation, attend a family get-together, or anything that didn't involve baseball?"

"Not during the season, no." Buck took a sip of his tea and grimaced when he realized it had long since gone cold. "Come on, Kristie, you knew I was a player when you married me. You've got no cause to complain now."

"That's not the point. Even when it's the off-season, you spend all your time thinking about the game, talking about it, getting together with all your baseball cronies."

"It's my job," Buck said, attempting to focus on the papers in front of him once more.

"It's more than just a job to you." Kristie advanced into the room, stopping squarely in front of him. "That's what I'm saying, baseball is your entire life, and everyone and everything else is just hanging around the periphery. Me, the kids--none of us mean as much to you as this game."

Buck bit back a sigh of frustration as he gave up trying to concentrate. "That's not true."

"It is," Kristie said, her eyes flashing. "For all your emphasis on baseball as a way of unifying people, bringing them together from all walks of life to root for a common goal, it's just the opposite. Look at you--everything you've got, emotionally, physically, you gave it all to the team, to the pursuit of your precious stats. I've seen you play injured, with a fever, missing family events, all because there was a game."

"You make it sound like I've been a neglectful husband and father."

"Oh, I don't think you did it intentionally. It's just that we've never been a priority for you."

Buck stared at her in disbelief. "I've never neglected you or the kids."

"How often did you play with the boys?" Kristie asked, and then went on without giving him a chance to respond. "A simple game of catch? Once you realized you weren't raising a future Gold Glove holder or home run champion, your interest waned."

"Neither Jamie nor Ben ever seemed to be that into baseball. I wasn't going to force them."

"Well, since you were hardly around while they were growing up, it's not surprising both of them developed other interests."

Buck took a deep breath. There were so many ways he could have responded--he was angry, but sad, too, that she could think this of him. And in a corner of his mind, there was a niggling doubt that wondered if she was really right. But that quickly passed with her next words.

"And look at you now. It's not like baseball is actually going to continue--everyone knows this is the last season. But there you are, acting like what you're doing is important, like it could actually make a difference."

"It is important and it does make a difference," Buck said tightly. "I'm not someone who does things halfway."

"No, you're not, but it kills me to see you wasting yourself on something as trivial as this game."

Buck stood slowly. "I've devoted my whole life to baseball, and you're calling it trivial?"

"Compared to real life, yes, it is." Kristie gestured at the window, the heavy curtains drawn against the deepening gloom. "Do you ever pay attention to anything going on in the outside world? Are you aware of the unrest and uneasiness all over the planet? Don't you see that there are more important things to worry about this fall instead of baseball and the pursuit of an empty title?"

Buck grabbed his jacket and cap, shoved his papers into his bag and headed toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Kristie said, following him.

"I've got to get the park."

"You didn't hear one thing I said, did you?"

"I heard you. But I've got a responsibility, and I intend to meet it."

"Buck..."

The door slammed behind him.

~*~

Jon Tate stretched as best he could in the cramped confines of the broadcast booth, welcoming the respite of a commercial announcement. He glanced at the 'telltales' on the bottom of his computer screen which told him how many viewers were connected to his 'Stream. Less than a thousand now; the numbers had been steadily dropping throughout the game. His mouth tightened and he resumed his play-by-play.

"And welcome back, folks. You're watching Game 7 of an epic World Series. To recap the action so far, the Series is even at three apiece for the New York Yankees and the London Kings. Other than Game 4, which the Yankees won by a score of 10-5, for the most part we've seen some real pitcher's duels and outstanding defensive plays."

He paused to take a sip of water. "Tonight's game fits into a special category of its own--there's been a lot of ups and downs in this five hour marathon. The lead has changed hands no fewer than five times. The Yankees got on the board first, scoring two runs before the Kings ever got to the plate. That lead didn't last long, of course, as the Kings promptly scored three runs of their own in the bottom of the first. 

"Now we're all tied up, at eight runs apiece, going into the bottom of the 13th inning. The heart of the Kings' order is due. We'll be seeing Burke, Kennedy and Bokai. "

Tate looked around the nearly deserted stadium. Attendance had been announced at 300, back in the fourth inning, but it didn't seem that more than a handful of spectators were left. 

"New pitcher for the Yankees, Floyd Hunter, who saw limited action during the regular season. The bullpen for both teams has been stretched pretty thin. Michael Garza pitched a total of three and a third innings, gave up three walks, one hit, and struck out four.

"Burke steps up to the plate. Fastball down the middle. Back in the seventh inning, he hit one just like that, which at the time gave London the go-ahead run. Next pitch, just misses outside. Burke just gets a piece of the next one, is in the hole now at 1-2. Swiiiiiiing and a miss, struck him out!

"Hunter stares down at the catcher, waiting for the sign, as Kennedy comes to bat. It's been a frustrating night for Kennedy, he's 0-4 with two walks and a sacrifice. Hunter misses outside with his first offering, looked like a slider. Next pitch, same spot. Now he's going back to the fast ball. Kennedy is out in front on that one, hits an easy grounder to the shortstop who throws him out."

The play-by-play could just be heard from the dugout as Buck took one final swing in the on-deck circle, then stepped up to the plate. Two outs, the bases empty; Buck didn't like to admit it, but he felt tired. And for the first time, old. They had to make something happen; he didn't know how much longer he or his team could keep going. His only consolation was that the Yankees' players had to be just as spent. Sooner or later, someone would make a mistake. He only hoped it would be his opponent.

The first pitch was outside, or so Buck thought. "Strike!" called the umpire.

Buck turned around. "What?"

"What's the matter, Buck? Hearing going as well as your eyesight?" asked the catcher, with a grin.

"Yeah, right, O'Brien," Buck said, stepping back into the batter's box. 

He fouled off the next pitch, putting himself into an 0-2 hole. Patience, he told himself. Lay off a bit. Hunter was a finesse pitcher, preferring to nibble at the corners of the strike zone as opposed to blowing smoke. Buck's strategy was rewarded when the next two pitches missed. Hunter took the sign, began the windup, and fired. Buck jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being hit on the elbow. More importantly, he kept his bat out of the way. Full count.

The next pitch was a fast ball, straight down the middle. Buck just managed to get a piece of it and knock it foul. 

Buck asked the umpire to call time, and stepped out of the batter's box. He adjusted his gloves, touched the rim of his cap, the logo on his sleeve, tapped the end of his bat against his spikes. The same rituals he'd been doing at every at-bat, his entire career; he took a deep breath and then was ready. Hunter, in the meantime, stepped off the rubber, obviously deciding it was his turn to make the batter wait. Buck stepped out again.

"You going to get back in there and hit, Buck?" Eddie hollered from the Yankee dugout. 

Buck didn't reply. He stepped back into the batter's box and waited for the pitch. As he saw the ball coming toward him, he wasn't conscious of swinging. All he knew was that in one fluid motion, the ball seemed to change direction, flying back out toward the outfield. He stood transfixed, watching, not moving a muscle.

"If it stays fair, it's going all the way!" Tate exclaimed. "Yessiree, folks! It's gone! The Kings win the Series! The Kings win the Series!"

The ball crashed into the upper deck, which was completely and eerily empty. No one ran over to try and pick up the ball. It just bounced in and rolled under a row of seats. 

Buck tossed his bat to the side, and did his turn around the bases, feeling like he was moving underwater. He was dimly aware of stepping on home plate, being patted on the back, and then of Newson charging out to be among the first to congratulate him. 

"Damn, but that was some shot, you lucky dog!" Eddie pumped his hand vigorously. 

"As we said, may the best man win," Buck said, vaguely surprised at how out of breath he sounded.

"I wouldn't go that far," Newson said, "but what a way to end it!" He grinned, not looking as devastated as the manager of the losing team might have looked, then stepped back as Buck was engulfed by his players.

The Kings congratulated each other on the field, quite excited, but afterward in the locker room the mood was very subdued, despite the flowing champagne. Buck tried to smile as he shook hands with the Commissioner, said something entirely conventional and forgettable as he was presented with the trophy. 

During the celebration, such as it was, two of his players asked to speak to him privately. Buck thought he knew what it was about.

"So you see," said Freddy Guntz, "I don't think I can do this anymore. It's not that I'm not glad we won, and I'd love to have a chance to try and repeat, but you know--"

"You have to think about your future, about supporting your families," Buck said. It was a line he'd heard with increasing frequency over the past few seasons.

Guntz looked uncomfortable. Aiden Kennedy, the first baseman, swallowed. "I'm sorry, Buck, if there were any other way--"

"I understand," Buck said. "Honestly, I don't know if any of us will be back next year." He forced a smile, somewhat more successfully than he had with Commissioner Martinez. "Best of luck to you both. I mean it."

"Thanks, Buck."

After everyone had left, Buck went back on the field and into the stands, climbing into the upper deck near the left field foul pole. Bending down, he searched under the seats until he found it. He pocketed the scuffed white sphere and began the long trek down to the stadium exits. 

"Great game tonight, Buck!" called one of the security crew as he approached.

"Thanks," he responded. 

"Anything we can do for you?" asked the guard.

"No, I'm on my way out," Buck said. "Have a good night."

"You, too, sir."

He stood for a long time on the ramp watching as the lights went out, section by section, until the field was completely dark.

In the parking lot, he heard his name being called.

"Hey, Buck--that was some homer!" The speaker was a young boy, who looked to be about ten or twelve years old. Standing next to him was an older man, obviously his father.

"Thank you," Buck said. 

"I just knew you were going to hit one--after all, you guaranteed the Kings were gonna win!"

Buck recalled he'd made that boast in an interview before Game One. "Yeah, me and Babe Ruth." At the boy's blank look, Buck added, "Ruth also guaranteed a win once for his team. He was the home run king for a good chunk of the last century, and many folks still think he was one of the greatest players of all time."

"My dad always says you're one of the best players ever."

"Thanks," Buck said awkwardly. "What's your name, son?"

"Toby--" the boy pulled himself up to his full height. "Tobias Sisko."

"Well, pleased to meet you. Do you play baseball, Tobias?"

The boy shook his head. "I'm on the school team for Parises Squares. None of my friends are really interested in baseball, but I like to watch the old vids and that's why my dad and I came to the game tonight." 

"We came all the way from New Orleans," the father added. "Hang the expense, who knows if we're ever going to get the chance to see anything like this again?" He turned to his son. "Come on, Toby, it's late and we've got to get going."

Buck took the ball out of his pocket, feeling the worn leather, the stitching on the side, slightly torn from the impact of the hit. His hand seemed to sag under the weight of all the memories of his years of playing. 

"Hey, kid!" he called, and tossed the ball to him. 

Tobias looked up in surprise and delight as he caught it.


End file.
